


Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!

by cartouche



Series: cold heart of a conqueror [3]
Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22028449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: They are not two sides of the same coin, not a mirror reflection of each other, not yin and yang. They are not brothers.They were once.
Series: cold heart of a conqueror [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/654056
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!

Vergil’s teeth are sharp, too sharp, a stark blinding white, jagged, _dangerous_. They will drip red with blood, crimson on ivory, and Dante should have known, should have seen this coming.

He’s been blind.

They are not two sides of the same coin, not a mirror reflection of each other, not yin and yang. They are not brothers.

They were once.

There are still echoes of laughter trapped on an ethereal plane, clawing at the hole in his memories. They had fought then too, sticks for sword and Vergil – Vergil had _smiled_. Yamato gleams, harsh and deadly, and they are not those children. Perhaps they never were. Just a hazy dream, wish fulfilment, the brother he’d always wanted. Around them the city heaves, dragging it’s hulking monstrous form out of the shadows and into the light, tattered and ruinous, the last crumbling remains of an empire. Vergil will build his own kingdom here, blood and bone and broken backs, sharp, sharp teeth. He speaks of chaos as though they do not stand at the edge of the pit of destruction, the brink of insanity, as though the world is not collapse around them in bloodied shrieks and cold, grasping hands.

They are not brothers.

The flames gleam in his eyes. Tendrils of smoke roil between them, flickering and obscuring. Anger is all Dante, through and through, the rushing pump of adrenaline, raised voices, lashing out. Vergil stands still. Carved from marble. This is always how they will be, the same, and yet not. Identical and opposite.

It no longer matters what Vergil is. He knows his own place in the world.

He is Dante, nothing more and nothing less


End file.
